


Friendly Skies

by threewalls



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Professions, Alternate Universe, Backrubs, M/M, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>They're at thirty-four thousand feet, somewhere over the Pacific, flying into a night that will follow them.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendly Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> For lynndyre, who is here, and always has the best ideas.

Basch shrugs his shoulders, forwards, backwards, and cracks his neck. They're at thirty-four thousand feet, somewhere over the Pacific, flying into a night that will follow them. The passengers are quiet, the odd reading light or soft glow of personal entertainment systems visible down the aisles. He's on call -- can't sleep, so he's standing, not sitting, by the starboard rear hatch-- but he hasn't been called for an hour. Basch reaches back over his shoulder, but the angle isn't right and the stretch makes his back complain louder.

"Basch?" Vossler had looked asleep in his bucket-seat, arms crossed, head back, the knot on his tie pulled loose. Vossler won their coin toss at LAX, doesn't have to be awake until the breakfast service an hour before final descent.

"My back's tensed up, but--" Basch shrugs, to show it's nothing, the dim lighting covering the wince he makes. He'll get one of those nice ladies in Sussex Street to work out the knots, in maybe ten hours, allowing for arriving on time and beating the early morning long haul rush through immigration and quarantine.

But, Vossler's already standing, rubbing at his palms to warm them. "Turn around. Let me fix that for you."

Vossler starts on Basch's neck, broad thumbs stab-stroking either side of his spine, inching down to Basch's uniform collar, and sliding a few broader strokes underneath it. Basch's hands are set about waist height, palms flat on the chill, textured plastic of the cabin wall. They're sweating, and the traction's poor.

Vossler's hands shove into Basch's shoulder-blades; Basch sways forward, forehead smacking the cabin wall.

Vossler's fingers curl over Basch's shoulders. He taps at Basch's ankle with his shoe. "Brace yourself, you idiot."

Basch widens his stance, feet shoulder-width apart, his bent arms folded against the wall in front of him. Vossler shoves forward, a leg hard between Basch's even as he presses the heels of his palm into the knotted muscles of Basch's back. The strength of Vossler's hands makes up for his lack of technique, digging pressure rather than finesse. He finds the knot on Basch's right side by luck, and undoes it by sheer, bloody persistence.

Basch grunts.

Vossler leans forward, flat against Basch's back. "Shut up. You want to wake the passengers?"

The comm is crackling static. "Azelas, Ronsenburg: we'd like some coffees in the cock-pit, please." The pilot sounds too cheerful for this time of night. "If you're not busy."

"That f-- kid." Vossler pushes in once more, hard-- Basch bites his lip, it hurts so good-- before standing back, turning to grab for the galley curtain.

Vossler's thirty in April, two years and two months before Basch will. They haven't worked with this pilot before, but Basch thinks he looks like he'd have to duck up across the border to legally buy a drink.

Basch straightens his collar, cuffs and belt, before joining Vossler in the galley.


End file.
